


Five Times Cara Dune Was Responsible for The Mandalorian Removing His Helmet

by Estel, scifichicx



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, Soldiers, Trust, five times fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22088050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estel/pseuds/Estel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifichicx/pseuds/scifichicx
Summary: As on the tin.Chapter 1: Mando and Cara do an air drop that leaves them in a sticky situation. (By scifichicx.)Chapter 2: After about a week in the Sorgan fishing village, Cara tries their local brew spatchka and thinks Mando should try it too. (By scifichicx and Estel)Chapter 3: During the lull of a mission, Cara insists that Mando takes a moment for himself. (By scifichicx and Estel)Will update with new chapters.
Relationships: Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 239





	1. Bad Drop

"We go in the back." Cara Dune stated, before pointing to a red marker representing the drop site's coordinates. "There's a clearing we can drop into about a klick East." 

"What about the thunderstorms?" The Mandalorian asked. His voice was soft and deliberate through the modulator. 

She shook her head, "We can't go through without running the risk of getting fried, so we have to wait." 

Mando shifted, unsatisfied with the uncertainty of waiting for the weather to clear. Cara shrugged, "We don't have a choice. We go under; they see us. This is the only option."

"And the drop site?" 

"Picture perfect for what we need," she assured him with a proud little smile. "Nice and flat, not too big but big enough to hit from the sky."

Mando nodded, at least there was one thing going their way. 

…

"You said!" Mando barked, up to his waist in sloppy, muddy quicksand, "The site was picture perfect!" 

When they had landed solidly on the not-so-solid ground, it made them lose their footing. Cara's gun and Mando's jet pack had taken the worst of it, leaving him grounded until he could clean out the intake vents. "None of the maps said anything about quicksand!" She snapped back, struggling with her partially-submerged gun. The entire stock was nearly swallowed but pulling on it sank her more than freed it.

"Stop moving," Mando ordered. His tone was sharp and deathly serious. 

Cara hissed in frustration, she didn't want her weapon to get anymore crap in it than it already had. "Just use your grappling hook already." 

"It's jammed," he told her. The dirt was fine and he knew it was pressed into every seam of his armor that touched it. He'd have to disassemble and clean the whole damn thing. 

"It's what!?" Finally, she stopped wrestling with her gun and looked over at Mando. He was working to clean out the hook's launching mechanism while also making a point of staying very still. 

"It's covered in mud," he replied, voice tight with frustration. 

"Pull it out, use it the old-fashioned way." 

"It. Is. Jammed." 

Cara felt the crawl of claustrophobia making its way up from her gut. She clutched her gun tight, adrenaline and uncertainty begging her to fidget. 

Mando spoke softer, picking up on her panic. "Stay still. I'll fix it." 

She nodded, but immediately started looking around for an alternate option of escape. They had hit dead center and nothing but sucking mud was within arms reach. She felt herself getting pulled down in slow motion and it was freaking her out. 

"Dune. Stop." 

She did, but her eyes were wild when they locked onto the T of his visor. He held her look, taking in the state of her, and knew he needed to resolve this fast. He pulled off a glove to better get in the compact nook where the hook was spooled. For a moment all he could hear was Cara breathing. 

Her breath slowed with some struggle until, abruptly, she started humming. Mando glanced at her and saw her eyes were closed. She was focused on keeping her cool. "Calm and quiet aren’t really in your wheelhouse.”

She lifted her chin, "Give me something to hit; something to shoot at. Give me bad odds and an extraction point. This? This is unnatural."

"It is a result of nature," he said. It wasn't a criticism, more an observation. 

"Not what I mean. The way it feels; pressing on everything, pulling-" she gulped in a deep breath. "Like a nightmare." 

"I've almost got it," he assured. When she didn't reply, he pressed on. "What were you humming?" 

"A children's song," she said. Then after a thoughtful beat, she added, "from Alderaan." 

Mando paused, the knowledge tightening around his heart. This time he didn't look up. He didn't need to; he knew her expression from the tone of her voice and from his own experiences. He needed a few more moments. "Hum it again." 

"You got a thing for off-key children's songs?" She asked with a smirk. 

Finally, he was taking her mind off the situation. He smiled. "I want to hear it," he prodded. 

With a little shake of her head and the breath of a laugh she said, "Ok, Mando." 

It was a simple melody. It seemed that it had been written cheerfully enough but was now being recounted with the gentle drag of somber but loving memory. He wondered what the words were- or if it had words at all. It took just over the length of one verse and refrain to get the spool rotating again. He spoke gently, in respect of the dead planet's soft song, "It's fixed." 

Cara, calmer now, nodded once. 

Mando scanned the trees with his visor, calculating the best way to get to solid ground. "I'm going to pull myself to the edge. When I'm planted, I'll get you." 

She nodded again. That was the only way to do it and she knew that, so she reminded herself of the fact repeatedly and aggressively whenever her heart rate spiked. 

Mando pulled a length of the cable, careful to hold it out of the mud, and swung the hook over his head before pitching it into the solid lower branches of the nearest tree. It latched on the first attempt and Mando didn't waste any time pulling himself to the edge. His boots finally got purchase beneath him and he struggled his way to solid ground. 

Cara was sunk in up to the bottom of her vest, her elbows left with no choice but to settle on the tacky, chilly surface. Her gun had fared better, only a couple inches deeper than it had been. It was easier to keep herself from moving now, but every moment in that death trap was tapping against her skull with icy knuckles. Thankfully Mando was out and currently getting his hook out of the tree. He stopped abruptly, his head turning sharply to one side. She heard it too; a thick snap from just past the tree line.

Before Mando even had a chance to scan for heat signatures, something hit him in the mid-section and sent him flying backwards. A lizardy bird with sparse feathers reared up over Mando, spreading its massive wings with a shriek. Its talons slashed at his beskar breastplate hard enough to send sparks shooting off the surface. The beast lunged with its curved beak and Mando rolled out of the way, giving the creature a mouth full of dirt for its trouble. 

One hand slapped into the quicksand, immediately swallowed and sucked in. The bird swung its head, and it connected in the middle of Mando's back, sending him flipping over his own arm before he landed in the mud with a splat. Mud rushed into the back of his helmet, making it a struggle to sit up. He was spread out like a bug on fly paper and everything was moving too slow. The bird was ready to drop on him with claws that would crush his armor straight through his body. 

_ZzzPLACK!_

The beast reared back, flapping erratically and thrashing. It lost momentum, wings sluggish like they were getting heavier, and then it collapsed on Mando in a dead weight. The wind was knocked from his lungs and the creature pressed him ever more certainly into the mud. He was dazed and disoriented- 

"Mando!" 

His eyes snapped open and his brain jogged back to life. Cara was in trouble. Mando pushed into the mud with both hands until he found the solid ground beneath. He let out a growling yell and pushed up with all his strength. The ground gave for a moment sending him deeper, more mud pooling in his helmet. He remembered his signet and pushed harder. The limp creature started to lift with him. He yelled out his frustration and turned it into fuel, dislodging the creature and tearing himself from the shallow quicksand. 

Cara was submerged to her shoulders. He had to act now. A fresh shock of adrenaline shot though him, sending him into motion. A tree for an anchor, and then he took a running start and leapt toward her. He landed about a foot away and got his arms under hers. He hauled her upward even though it made him sink and she got her arms around him. 

"Hang on," he commanded before pulling them to the edge with unyielding focus. The second Cara felt solid ground she dug in and started pulling him along instead. They collapsed at the tree line, breathing raggedly. 

"I'm sorry," Cara said. 

Mando rolled his head toward her, cringing at the sensation of mud sliding down the back of his head wrap. 

"About the drop," she clarified. 

He nodded and she wished she knew what expression was under there. 

"We're near a river, aren't we?" He asked.

Cara gave him a funny look, "Yeah, why?" 

Mando sat up and mud dripped out from inside his helmet. "Why do you think?" 

And then Cara started to laugh.


	2. Spatchka and Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The black barrel is for the strong stuff, which clearly means "soldier strength".

The krill fishers' village had two things going for it; the captivating Omera and an ungodly amount of spatchka. It was made there, from the bioluminescent shells of the krill, in old, well-kept barrels. People drank it there, but it was mainly made for barter. The villagers were proud of it and when Cara experienced its clean, refined sandy flavor with a hell of a kick behind it, she understood why. 

As a thank you for agreeing to help, Cara and Mando were welcomed to help themselves to as much as they liked. Surely two people wouldn't drink down the whole operation, right? Maybe. Cara was three shots into the good stuff when Mando flipped back the front flap of the distillery hut and found Cara sitting on the floor with a clay pitcher and glass, both faintly glowing out the tops. She grinned up at Mando, head leaning back lazily. "Come here often?" She teased. 

“No,” he replied bluntly.

She quirked her eyebrow at him and pat the floor beside herself. "Come on, Mando," she said, already louder and looser than normal. "I know the bartender." 

He cocked his helmet warily. This was decidedly not why he’d come looking for her, but all things considered, he would humor her for a moment. It wasn’t as though they were in any rush. They clearly had their work cut out for them and after taking a wild blaster shot from one of the villagers today, he was hungry for the company of a real soldier. He settled down beside her with the requisite clacking that accompanied his awkward decent. “I hear she’s a bit unpredictable. Like drinking before evening meal.”

"Wow, I'll talk to the manager about it." With a self-indulgent giggle, she polished off her drink and immediately refilled the cup. Instead of knocking it back, she shoved it at Mando. "It's good. Like… damn good." She grinned at him expectantly. After a moment of unreadable response, she added, "Training is done for the night. We're in a place so backwater it might as well not exist. Have a drink; it'll take your mind off how screwed we are."

“We’re not screwed. They’re just inexperienced,” he attempted to justify his normally removed attitude, but his frustration was evident in his voice. “Very, very inexperienced.” He was honestly confused as to how any culture existed for that long without any skills in battle whatsoever. It was a wonder it took them this long to be locked into this messy situation. He refused the Rebel’s offer of the weirdly glowing drink with his gloved hand.

"Oh come on, a Mandalorian can't handle a little krill juice?" She laughed softly to herself. "guess that's the big secret; fierce in battle but can't hold their liquor." She took a little sip and sighed happily. "That's ok, Mando, I'll keep your secret. Unless anyone directly asks if I ever out-drank a Mandalorian, then I gotta tell 'em. You understand."

“Refusal isn’t the same as getting beat and you know it, Dune.” His disinterest was suddenly at odds with his refusal to be bested at anything.

"Refusal is a way to get out of proving anything and _ you _ know it." She took another sip, eyes locked on the top slash of his visor and sparkling with challenge. "I'm already three in," she glanced at the cup in her hand. "Ehh, maybe three-point-two now. I've got the handicap." She wagged the cup towards him again. 

He paused for a moment, trying to see if his reserved nature would win the day, but the fire inside him pushed him to snatch the glass from her.

"Yes!" She cheered triumphantly. "Oh, do I close my eyes? I don't want to step on your mystique." 

“It’s not a mystique,” he said as he sprung up enough to maneuver without knocking over the bioluminescent jug. “It's my Creed.” He settled quickly beside her, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder but facing opposite directions. “This will do just fine.”

She wasn't so drunk that she didn't realize it was a time to tread wisely. She stayed planted, amusing herself by inspecting the faint glow that seeped between the ancient barrel planks. All teasing aside, she felt a sharp pang of commeradarie that was dangerously close to fondness. It had been a while since she felt that, not since- "Bottoms up," she announced to interrupt her impromptu tumble down memory lane.

With that, the Mandalorian slipped the small glass under the base of his helmet and tossed the whole, strangely saline drink down. He rattled his helmet as it settled back down when he leaned forward. It wasn’t exactly bad, but it was certainly not his drink of choice. “Another,” he said flatly, holding out his cup for her.

She laughed and threw her head back gleefully, knocking her head into his helmet. It was solid, and the smack shocked through her skull. "Frag, sorry!" She winced and leaned forward to rub the throbbing spot. As far as she knew he didn't even feel it but it felt appropriate to apologize. It did nothing to stop her from reaching back to take the glass and refill it. "Here you go," she offered, turning slightly since she had it on good authority that his creed-helmet was where it should be. 

Before she had even fully righted the jug, he slammed back the second cup. It wasn’t until he moved to tilt his head forward again that he noticed much of any interaction with his keen senses. Through the sluggish moment, he extended the glass again. “Gotta catch up.”

"Honorable," she replied, blinking rapidly a few times before attempting the delicate work of getting more precious drink into the cup. She only spilled a few drops which she licked off her thumb before making a point to give him the cup without tipping it too far any which way.

“That is the goal,” he muttered before quickly doing away with this cup full as well. Now it was really starting to seep into his nerves. He could feel it in his fingertips and up his cheeks. Then it came at him with double the speed. Three shots full of this rich tonic disoriented him as he tried to repeat the motion of handing her the glass. “One more and we’re tied.”

"Nuh-uh, that was three. If you need to take two sips off the top of my next one to feel equal, go ahead." With that, she picked up the pitcher and stared at it a moment. Was it always that heavy? With intense focus, she poured another glass and paused, staring at it now. "You should. Let's keep this above board. But sips! You saw how little I had."

“No sips.” Again the cup pushed under his helmet and he lost any sense of gravity for a moment before forcing himself forward. Probably should have sipped. A few steadying breaths re-centered him as the whole of Sorgan seemed to spin underneath him for a second. It would pass, just like the ales, wines, and concoctions he’d had while cutting deals in other back-water places. Besides, he wasn’t about to let this Rebel dropout best him.

"Well, fuck, then," she proclaimed before lifting the pitcher with one, then two hands, hefting it to her lips and taking a purposefully noisy gulp. The room spun hard but she put all her focus on making sure the vessel made it back to the ground without getting shattered. 

“Woah there,” he muttered, putting a firm hand on her shoulder.

She turned too quickly to look at him and her vision blurred. "It's strong, huh?" She said in a genuine, innocent inquiry. Her body felt like she had a deathly fever, and sweat glistened along her hair line. She turned a little more, to get a better look at her drinking buddy. "I  _ like  _ your helmet," she stated. "It's good." 

“Thank you.” He managed to say the words even though he was starting to lose any sense of gravity. “It is strong.” Abruptly, a different instinct kicked in besides his desire to win every confrontation. “Come on,” he said, attempting to rise. “We should get you off to your bunk.”

She looked up at him and the effort sent her spinning harder. Taking a deep breath, she tried to sound marginally less shit faced. "I'll get there. I'm just going to hang out a minute; enjoy the glow." Despite her efforts she was looking green around the gills. The sour, sinking feeling of overindulgence started to pull at her and she just needed him to leave so she could regret her decisions in peace. 

“Just don’t paint the floor with that stuff. I’m not sure they’d be thrilled about it.”

Guess she'd been made. "There's a waste bin over there," she moaned pitifully, pointing almost at where it was. "Just gotta get to it." She started to get up, then stopped right before she knocked the pitcher over. She looked at it as though it had offended her.

While ignoring the foreboding feeling that this was coming for him in short order, he reached under her arms and started to drag her in the direction of the bin she was trying to point at while only swaying a little.

Cara whined at being jogged around, but she didn't fight it. "The bin, Mando. Move the bin." She sagged in his arms, miserable, but impressed by the quality of the liquor. "No more moving," she pleaded.

Without thinking about the request too much, he lowered her to the ground and moved quickly for the bin that seemed suddenly both very close now that he’d covered all that ground and decidedly far away. He was grateful when he grabbed it that the woven structure did not weigh very much. He brought it to her quickly.

When he set her down, Cara had to choose between bravado-driven misery and sweet relief. She chose the latter and laid back on the ground. It was cool beneath her and for the moment things felt better. She looked up at the dim celling of the hut, mindlessly following the patterns woven into it. She probably should have heeded the warning that the black barrel was strong. 

As Cara lay splayed out on the ground, the Mandalorian swayed over her. It was becoming increasingly apparent that he was not about to escape her fate. “I have to go,” he said abruptly, setting down the bin beside her.

Drunk as she was, she knew that tone. You're not a soldier for 7 years and don't know the clipped, slurred, desperate tone of someone who just found out they were parsects past their limit. She smiled sympathetically. "Yep," she replied, reaching out and finding the bin with her hand. "You won, though."

With her admission, he moved as quickly as he could manage back towards his meager accommodations, hoping no one, especially not Omera, intercepted him. Once through the doorway, he examined the room thoroughly, showing no sign of life. Satisfied that Omara had kept the Child until he would be collected later, the Mandalorian surrendered to the swaying ground and firmly set his helmet on the bench beside the tarred basket filled with cleaning rags from his nightly weapons cleaning.


	3. Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes doing nothing at all is the right answer.

"When's the last time you felt the sun on your face, Mando?" Cara asked because she was enjoying the late Autumn sun, warming her skin and seeping comfortably into the dark fabric she wore. She and Mando were side by side, facing opposite directions. They were waiting on word to meet a contact, so for now they kept to the outskirts of the town, lounging on some rocks. The village, where Mando was looking, was fine, but if you looked the other way, a broad, flat expanse of dessert rolled out into eternity. The angle of the sun made it shine like warm gold and the sparse high clouds teased a beautiful sunset. 

“A couple of days ago.”

She glanced back at him over her shoulder, "Oh, yeah?"

The only response she got was a nod. The Mandalorian’s gaze was fixed out in the distance, waiting attentively for any sign on the road. It wasn’t against any part of his Creed to privately adjust his gear in sunlight. It had only been for an exposed moment before the helmet had gone back on, granting him a reprieve from the blinding sunlight.

She smiled, assuming he'd just taken it off to enjoy a moment of fresh air. "That's good. Simple pleasures, right?" A breeze blew in from the direction of the sinking sun. Only a little more time before the temperature dropped to a chill, but she was going to enjoy every second until then. 

“It wasn’t-” he started defensively, but he course-corrected quickly. “It was just a minor adjustment. I don’t make a habit of exposing myself like that.”

Her smile faded and she looked at him sideways. To be honest that was the answer she'd been expecting, even if she hadn't caught his meaning the first time. "I was wondering where you could have slipped off to for that kind of privacy. Guess you didn't."

“There’s too many people looking to see what Mandalorians are made of,” he mused.

"Three Jawas in a tin suit, right?" She tossed back cheerfully. 

His helmet quarantined any sound from a laugh if there was one, but he did nod in amusement.

She was smiling again, warm with companionship as much as sunshine. The sky started to shift to rosy orange, "Gonna be a good sunset, I think."

“Better if this guy would show up.”

She snorted softly. "These things take time," she said with a dropped voice and a bad local accent, parroting the words of their contact. She shook her head. "It better pan out." 

… 

"It's a big planet, Mando. There's no reason for anyone to be out there. Besides, you've got proximity monitors on your ship. If a lizard gets too close we'll know about it." She was lounging in the corner by the weapons cabinet, arms folded and looking fully ready to laugh at him. 

“What makes you think I even  _ want _ to do this?” The cargo door was open on the Razer Crest and the sun bounced off the nearly white dirt on the ground and throughout the ship.

Next to her, the small green child was cooing as he tried to make a scouring brush and a wrench fit together.

"Okay, fine," she put her hands on her hips and cocked her head at him. "Do you want to go out to the middle of nowhere, with no obligations and no people for miles, and be left alone for an hour or two?" 

He froze, mulling over the exact offer. He could have been a statue were it not for his cape catching a small lick of the breeze.

Then as soon as the stillness came it left him and he quietly grabbed his rifle that had been leaning beside the cabinet. He turned down the long hallway towards the aft part of the ship. “One hour. And if anything comes within a hundred yards, I won’t need the ship’s defenses.” The Mandalorian punctuated that last part with a firm tug of the strap of his rifle over his shoulder.

Her grin was triumphant. "Now we're talking! I'll be here." She turned to the kid, who cooed curiously as he watched Mando leave. "It's okay, he just needs some peace and quiet." Before he was all the way out, she called after him, "Hey, Mando?" 

He stopped just beside the carbonite system and looked back at the two of them.

"I'll be _ here.  _ Not up top with the windows. Not out there, okay? You do what you want, but us "living things" are going to be tucked in." She glanced at the child and gave his little head an affectionate pat. "Aren't we, kiddo?" Said kiddo was very invested in his impromptu toys again and he burbled happily. She smiled at him, then at Mando. "See you later."

Her guarantee quieted his last reservations about this layover. It had been a hectic few months and he was due some peace and quiet. With a final nod, he exited the ship and shut the hatch behind him from his gauntlet.

The area was a dry lakebed or what was once an ocean with silty white dirt packed and cracked making a lattice of the ground across the horizon. His quick scans backed up Cara’s claims of complete solitude as he stepped away from the ship and the sensors continued to clarify that the sky, too, was empty except for the tufts of soft pink clouds that drifted lazily by.

There wasn’t a time in his recent memory where he felt more at ease. Despite all the chaos waiting for them tomorrow and out in the stars, no imminent threat or obligation kept him alert. No one was going to get the drop on him as he lowered himself onto the packed earth and set his rifle across his lap, his fingers resting adjacent to the trigger as always. Once settled, he took a deep breath as the breeze wafted in the sweet scent of a distant forest or field and the sun began to warm the exposed parts of his jumpsuit.

Everything was still.

As his body warmed in the daylight, he could feel the tension leave him. No more hunters. No more Imps.

His hands rose to grip the lip of his helmet and he took in a deep breath. As he lifted it slowly, he was reminded of how certain he was that there was no one there. No oaths broken today.

With that final comfort instilled in him, he pulled off his helmet, letting the sun’s rays cover his face. It was only for an hour, but it felt like years washing off of him.


End file.
